


Stories sticking to your skin

by linaerys



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Writing on Skin, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the  square “Writing on the body”. Johnny wants more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories sticking to your skin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a girlfriend-less AU set after the 2013 Blackhawks Stanley Cup win and into the following season. The title is from the Wailin’ Jennys song “This Heart of Mine” because Tazer makes me want to listen to Canadian singers even more than I already do.

Johnny always tries to remember how stupid winning makes him. And how winning it all makes him stupid about everything, while it just makes Patrick happy, incandescent, like there’s nothing more left for him to want. He shouts and cheers and drinks until his voice is totally hoarse by the time they get to the Roof, and Johnny’s is too, though a lot of that is from yelling on the ice, during the game.

The last time they won the cup was the night that Johnny grabbed Patrick’s shoulder in a way that, finally, neither of them decided to misread. After years of dancing around it and weird almosts, it was winning that made him go for it, because that night, what could go wrong?

Winning the cup makes Johnny want everything, feel like he finally deserves it, and just maybe, he can really have it. Last time it turned out to be a good idea, but now they have something figured out that almost works, that does work, that works well and is the best of both worlds, and it’s stupid of Johnny to want more. 

He’s not thinking that much, really. It passes through his head between drinks and congratulations. Though then Patrick wants to be sprayed with champagne and that makes Johnny wish again. 

If Patrick wants anything at all tonight, it’s to make sure that he and everyone else has a great time. 

Johnny can’t stop looking at Patrick and wanting things, like to grab Patrick in front of all these people and kiss him so everyone knows that Patrick’s his. Even in this state, he knows that's not a good plan, but he’s even drunk enough and high enough on winning that he thinks it might be time to tell Patrick that he’s done sharing him with everyone else.

*

Later in the summer, Johnny's glad that there were so many people around, and they never did get their time alone, and he never said anything stupid.

After the celebrations he has other music to face, the headaches and dizziness from some of those bad hits during the finals. He spends some time in the dark. He delays the start of his summer training as long as he possibly can. 

He and Patrick don’t see each other during the summer, except at the usual events. They text non-stop, and talk about once a week. Johnny wants to invite him out to Winnipeg, or drop in on him in Buffalo, but that would be something new and different, and Patrick might think it meant something that Johnny was only sure he wanted to say the night he won the Cup.

*

No matter how much training Johnny does in the off-season, how hard he pits himself against his brother, anyone who he can get to visit him, and even against his own previous summers’ PRs, coming back in the fall is always a shock to his body. He never pushes himself as hard when he’s not with the team. 

The only consolation is that everyone else is hurting too. After the first week there’s no one on the team who’s not sore and tired.

“Ow,” Patrick says when he bends down to unlace his skates after a particularly brutal practice. It looks like he threw himself into his weight training this off-season, and managed to back on the weight he lost during the playoffs, plus a little bit, but it will never be enough to make the first weeks not hurt.

“If your back hurts, go see one of the therapists,” says Johnny.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Duh.”

“Is it from squats?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah, it’s a little tweaky on my--”

“Your right,” says Johnny, unreasonably pleased that he knows that. No one is totally even, and no matter how many single-side exercises Patrick does, he’ll still get that same tightness. 

Johnny walks by the therapist office later, to make sure Patrick did what he was told. The door is open. Johnny leans against the frame, letting the metal cool his shoulder. Patrick lies on the table, the therapist bent over him, writing something on his back with a red grease pencil. Patrick’s skin looks very pale against the markings. 

Patrick props himself up on his elbows so he can do something with his phone. He’s twitchy now that the therapist--Ellen, Johnny remembers the name belatedly--is doing something else, fussing with one of her machines. As soon as she comes over and touches his skin again, with fingers or with that pencil, he goes still and slack.

Johnny tries to remind himself that while he is allowed to look, at least sort of, it’s probably best not to look so much in public. But now Ellen’s tucking a towel into the top of Patrick’s shorts and pulling them down just so the beginning of the curve of his ass is visible and Johnny doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t mean to make the sigh audible, but they both turn around at the same time, so probably he did. Johnny pulls himself up straight. “Um, what are you doing?” he asks Ellen, ignoring the grin that Patrick’s throwing his way.

“She has a new toy,” says Patrick, waggling his eyebrows. “She wants to try it out on me first. You have to wait your turn.”

Ellen gives Johnny half-smile. “It’s just a new ultrasound--promotes healing, relaxes tight muscles.”

“And the marks?” Johnny asks. It’s just a series of red Xs, more on the right side. 

“Just to remind me where to go. Once I wipe off the gel, the pencil comes with it,” she says. She’s giving him a quizzical look now, and Johnny takes a hint and walks away.

*

“You just lo--like seeing me naked,” says Patrick later. He’s in Johnny’s apartment, with his shirt off, and he’s craning his neck around to try to look at his own back, which is stupid.

“As if,” says Johnny. “I see you naked all the time.” Which doesn’t make it any less true, so Patrick gives him a knowing grin. Johnny rolls his eyes. “The marks are gone, but if you want to look at your back, try a mirror. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

So then Patrick’s off into Johnny’s bedroom, to look at himself in the big mirrored closet doors, still craning his neck, but at least now he'll actually see something.

“Are you sure it’s gone?” Patrick asks.

“Yes,” said Johnny. Without the red marks, his skin doesn’t look quite so pale. It’s still light, but it has the leftover gold of summer still on it. 

“Why don’t you check to be sure?” Patrick asks.

Oh. He can do that. He joins Patrick, pushes him down on the bed and checks very carefully. Maybe there are a few reddish marks, and the skin that was under the ultrasound gel is cooler to the touch than the rest, but a shower and even that will be gone. It will be the skin that Johnny knows again.

*

Patrick doesn’t spend the night. He has plans that Johnny carefully didn’t ask about, because while they do this thing (and that’s how he has to think about it), they’re not dating. Johnny knows because once he asked if that’s what was happening, as casually as he could, and Patrick just snorted. “Nah, man. I date girls. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh yeah, me too,” Johnny had said, not sure whether to feel hurt or relieved. And he did date girls. He does. He just hasn’t met anyone lately. 

*

He watches Patrick pick up the next time they go out as a team. He comes in the following day with a phone number in ball-point on his forearm. Johnny sees it and goes hot and cold and angry.

Everyone wants a piece of Patrick, and he’s always happy to give it. Of course, people always want to talk to Johnny too. He’s the captain. But they ask him questions and get what they want, and then they go away. It’s different with Patrick. People want to bask in his presence. Johnny hates that he’s just like everyone else that way.

Johnny snorts at his own thoughts, Hammer gives him a weird look, and he goes back to lacing up his skates for practice. Bask in his idiocy, more like, Johnny tells himself.

*

He does steal one of Ellen’s grease pencils from her therapy room, though, and puts it in his pocket, with the tip wrapped in a napkin so it won’t stain his pocket.

He'll be able to tell Patrick he wants to write on him. They do that, tell each other things, at least things like “I want to blow you” and “I want you to fuck me” and “I don’t want to go home, let me crash here”. So Johnny could say something like “I want to write on you” and it would be okay. It’s only a little weirder than anything else they’ve told each other, and probably less weird than the first time Johnny said, “I want you to fuck me”, and his face went all red and his stomach was flipping over and his throat was tight until Patrick said “Yeah, Johnny, I want that too.”

He doesn’t tell Patrick this one yet, though, just keeps the pencil in his pocket, and writes on his arm with it one night. It doesn’t slide over his skin as easily as he imagined. The tip pulls a bit and the red line breaks. Writing takes a firm pressure. He imagines writing on Patrick’s back, imagines Patrick craning around to look at it. He doesn’t know what he’d write though, besides something stupid like “Property of Jonathan Toews”. Yeah, that would be great. He rolls his eyes at himself then licks his thumb and rubs viciously at the marks on until they’re just red smudges.

*

“Hey, you gotta not scowl at the rookies so much,” says Patrick after yet another brutal practice. Today was serious weights in the gym, high rep squats, then taking legs gone to jello out onto the ice and skating until none of them can walk straight.

Johnny leans his head back against the locker and closes his eyes. Taking off his gear seems like way too much effort right now, but the longer he sits like this, the harder it will be.

“I don’t mind,” says...someone. Someone new. Johnny can’t be bothered to open his eyes and try to put a name to that voice.

“It’s just my face,” he says to the room, which he’s said a million times before, because everyone thinks he’s angry when he’s not.

“We can’t all have my face,” says Sharpy. 

“Thank god,” Johnny replies, and then the whole locker room gets pulled into a desultory round of chirping about who’s uglier and whose mom would do whom. They’re all too beat to do more than follow the usual script.

Johnny’s been seeing less of Patrick this fall than he thought he would. Patrick doesn’t invite himself over as much, and Johnny--well, he hates the idea of being turned down, so he hasn’t asked. They’ve hooked up a couple times, but that’s normal--well, usual. Normal isn’t a word he applies to him and Patrick. It’s something that happens more on the road, Johnny reminds himself, at least it did last year.

Johnny opens his eyes and starts taking off his gear. Patrick’s further along than him, smiling tiredly at something Shawsy’s saying. Patrick takes a slurp of Gatorade and licks his lips, moving in slow motion like all of them are. Johnny realizes he’s staring again. He doesn’t really want to do anything about it right now, but after he and Patrick finish showering, he pulls Patrick along with him, to his car, and back to his place. He wants to sleep next to Patrick, and he's too tired to tell himself he's not supposed to have this. 

It’s nice, sometimes, to be pushed beyond thought, to total exhaustion. His nap will feel amazing and then he’ll sleep well tonight. When they get home he pulls Patrick into the bedroom. 

“No offense, Johnny," says Patrick, yawning hugely, "but I’m too tired for anything."

“Me too,” says Johnny. He pulls off his shirt. “I just want to sleep.”

Patrick shrugs and does the same and lies down next to him. It’s just as great a nap as Johnny hoped, with Patrick’s warmth heating the bed, until it’s almost too hot, and even when he wakes up, it’s a slow, dreamy sort of waking. He teeters half in and out of sleep for a long time, letting his mind wander. When Patrick starts to wake and shift, Johnny pulls him close and throws a leg and an arm over him.

They’re not dating, but it’s not just sex either. They’re friends. Johnny loves him. Patrick loves him back. They’ve actually said it--well, under the influence of a lot of booze, and it was more of an “I love you, man” than anything romantic, but it seemed perfect at the time. That was how this was supposed to be. Love and friendship and sex without actually having to--ugh, come out--or date or anything. And when Patrick does stupid stuff and the media laps it up, Johnny gets to ignore it, because Patrick’s not _his_ in any sense, any more than he’s anyone else’s. Johnny gets this extra piece of him, and that’s supposed to be enough.

Patrick’s waking up, and he rubs his butt on Johnny’s dick with absolutely no finesse. Not that Johnny’s ever needed that. One of the things he’s always loved about Patrick is how obvious he is.

Johnny kisses the back of his neck, and then the side, and reaches down to cup Patrick’s dick, and rub it a bit. Now is a good time to mention the writing thing, because Patrick’s amenable to almost anything when he’s horny.

Johnny considers and discards a couple lines. He’s terrible at making anything sound sexy. Blurting stuff out is more his style. So: “I want to write on you,” he says.

“Um,” says Patrick.

“I thought it could be hot,” says Johnny, defensively.

“I hooked up with this chick who had chocolate body crayons,” says Patrick. That is so not what Johnny wants to think about right now. “I was pretty drunk, though. I liked it when she licked it off me.”

“I don’t have chocolate crayons,” says Johnny. “Just--I borrowed that pencil from Ellen.”

“She’s kind of hot,” says Patrick. 

“Is there anyone you don’t think about fucking?” Johnny asks. He sort of thought that Patrick knew this stuff pissed him off. Just because Patrick hooks up with other people doesn’t mean that Johnny wants to know about it.

“Not really. And she is.” Patrick sounds a little pissed off now.

Johnny thinks about it. She’s compact and no-nonsense and a little sadistic in a way that suits a therapist, but he hasn’t considered her in any other way. “Well, this isn’t about her. It’s just--forget it.”

“Whatever,” says Patrick. “If you want to write on me--sounds good. As long as you get me off afterwards.”

“Maybe I’ll let you blow me,” says Johnny loftily. “And maybe I won’t.” Patrick rolls his eyes. 

He gets Patrick on his front and sits on his ass. He gets a glimpse of himself in the big closet mirrors. He’s frowning. If anyone saw this, they would think Johnny was the biggest weirdo. He _is_ the biggest weirdo. 

He considers the planes of Patrick’s back in the late afternoon light. They’re still both wearing boxers, and the warmth and friction is pretty nice without making him need to get Patrick’s hand on his dick right this minute. 

He still doesn’t know what to write. He starts with _Ellen is not hot_. Patrick’s warm skin makes the pencil glide easily. 

“That feels nice,” says Patrick. “What does it say?”

“Nothing,” says Johnny. “I’m just drawing stuff.”

“I hope it looks cool.”

“Well, it’s on you, so probably not,” says Johnny.

“You’re such a dick. Seriously, though. You gonna give me wings? Maybe bat-wings? I could be Batman.” 

Johnny tries not to smile. “You could not be Batman.”

“Why not?”

“You’re too short.”

“Says the dude who wants to draw on me.”

“I didn’t say you’re too short for this,” says Johnny. Wings are a good idea. He colors over the words he wrote, and replaces them with feathers. Blackhawks feathers--in shape, anyway.

“Just too short to be Batman.” 

“Exactly,” says Johnny. “Now shut up and let me concentrate.” It’s not really a turn on, except that he is sitting on Patrick’s ass, and he likes the way Patrick is all his right now. Patrick jumps when Johnny digs too hard into a sore muscle near his spine. Johnny soothes it with his fingertips, presses a kiss to the spot, and goes back to his drawing.

When it’s done, he lets Patrick admire it in the mirror. “Not bad,” says Patrick, looking at the wings on his back. “I’m an angel or something.”

“You are _not_ an angel,” says Johnny, blushing furiously. “It’s supposed to be hawk wings. Whatever, this was stupid.”

“You gonna help me wash it off? You want it all over your sheets?” Patrick gives him a sleazy grin. “Or do you want me on my hands and knees?”

It looks different when Patrick’s standing up, and suddenly it's totally working for Johnny. He did that. He put that there. “Yeah, later,” he says. He grabs Patrick’s shoulders and pulls Patrick down on top of him on the bed, smearing the lines with his palms. 

They’ve always kissed, for as long as they’ve been doing this, and Johnny’s always been grateful for it, even three years ago when Patrick was a pretty terrible kisser. Now it’s good--they’ve both gotten better at reading what the other one wants, which in Johnny’s case is just to get lost on it, to kiss Patrick until he’s too turned on to think about why he wanted to write--or draw--on Patrick so much.

He rolls Patrick over so he’s on his back, which he always likes, because he’s lazy in bed. Johnny kisses him there too for a while, pressing him into the mattress, and then works his way down Patrick’s chest, so clean and pale compared to his back.

“I thought you’d want to fuck me so you could look at your handiwork,” says Patrick. His breath hitches when Johnny mouths his inner thigh, and he spreads his legs more.

Johnny doesn’t answer. He thought about it, but they haven’t done that in a while, not since before the post-season. And anyway, that’s not the point of this. He knows the marks are there.

Johnny shrugs and licks the underside of Patrick’s dick and then all around it. He holds Patrick’s leg down with a forearm, because he’s not really in the mood for Patrick to get all thrust-y right now. Patrick groans again, and grabs at Johnny’s shoulder.

“That was pretty hot,” he’s saying, “even without the chocolate.”

Johnny pulls off his dick long enough to look up at him and say, “Shut the fuck up,” and goes back to it. After that Patrick isn’t quiet, but he also isn’t saying words, so Johnny counts it a win. Now he can get into how Patrick reacts to him, and draw it out until Patrick says, “Yeah, yes, I’m gonna,” and he pulls off to let Patrick spill over his hand.

“Do you want to fuck me now?” Patrick asks, so fast Johnny wishes he'd done a better job.

Johnny’s pretty hard--making Patrick come is always a turn on--but this has been a weird afternoon, and he doesn’t feel like he can trust himself not to make it weirder. “If you want,” he says.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Yeah, I mean, no,” says Johnny stupidly. 

“Come on.” Patrick pats the bed next to him. He ends up jerking Johnny off while they make out some more, and it’s good, but Johnny can’t help feeling like he messed this up somehow.

At least he gets to take a shower with Patrick, and scrub the designs off his back. They don’t usually do that, and Johnny catches himself pretending that he’s allowed to do this all the time, that Patrick will spend tonight and all the nights here, instead of going back to his place and his whole other life that doesn’t need Johnny in it.

*

They’re pushing hard enough in practice, and Johnny’s trying to wrap his head around the new things Q wants, the new team they’re turning into, that he can keep himself from thinking about him and Patrick for a while. 

But then it’s two days before the home opener, and Patrick’s over, they’re sitting on the couch, and he says, “I want to write on you this time.”

Johnny’s surprised. It was somewhat satisfying when he did it, but also somewhat...not. Because he couldn’t bring himself to write what he wanted to, though he liked the designs. He knows himself well enough to know that he loves and hates anything that makes him feel like Patrick his _his_. Loves it because it’s what he wants. Hates it because it’s not true. He never lets himself give Patrick hickeys anymore, even when Patrick asks him to, because he doesn’t like what it does to his head to see them later.

“So can I?” Patrick asks, after Johnny hasn’t said anything for a while.

“Sure,” says Johnny. “Knock yourself out. Where?”

“Like you did. Your back. And you can’t look until I’m done.” He waggles his eyebrows at Johnny. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Huh. Well, probably Patrick’s just going to write really embarrassing stuff, like “booty” on his ass, or something. Stuff that’s more embarrassing for him than for Johnny. And it comes off in the shower.

He gives Patrick a skeptical look, but follows him into the bedroom, and strips off so they can reverse what they did earlier, with Patrick sitting on Johnny’s butt this time. Johnny looks back over his shoulder. Patrick’s grinning, and he pretends to ride Johnny like a horse for a moment, complete with ass slapping motions in the air.

“I will throw you right off,” says Johnny.

“Then you’ll never find out what I’m gonna write on you.”

Now Johnny’s 100% sure it’s going to be some stupid shit, but what the fuck, he did agree to this. 

Johnny puts his head down. Once Patrick starts it’s actually pretty nice. Johnny can tell he’s writing words, and he really wants to know what they are, but for the moment, he’s enjoying the sensation of it, the quiet sounds of Patrick's breathing while he writes whatever this is. When he’s covered Johnny’s upper back, he goes to his lower, and uses one firm hand to stretch out the skin while he writes something else.

“Okay, I’m done,” says Patrick, eventually. Johnny wishes he could see Patrick looking at it, see the expression on his face. Does he lick his lips, are they open, or are they pressed together? “That was harder than it looks. I wish I could take a picture.”

That makes Johnny go cold. If he could, would he have taken a picture of Patrick like this? Some evidence that it actually happened. Or would it be another thing that was both too much and not nearly enough. “No pictures,” he says. “You done?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Johnny pushes himself up and Patrick off him. He gets on top pushes Patrick into the sheets. He can still feel the ghost impressions from where Patrick pressed the words in to him.

Patrick’s chest is so smooth and unmarked, Johnny wants to draw on it too, but Patrick still has the pencil clasped in his hand. Johnny looks down at him for a moment--why does he still feel like he needs to steal these moments?--until Patrick grins and cocks his head. “Should I draw directions, dude?” 

Patrick sits up and draws a messy arrow from his belly-button down to where his pubic hair starts. “I should take a picture of this,” Johnny mutters. “And show everyone.” 

Patrick laughs. “You wouldn’t. Now get to it.”

“It’s my turn,” 

He bites Patrick’s shoulder, tasting the faint salt of sweat, inhaling the crayon odor of the grease pencil along the light smell of Patrick’s scent and deodorant. He’s not going to obey Patrick’s stupid fucking arrow, so he starts rubbing Patrick’s dick until he sighs and climbs on top of Johnny.

“Should _I_ draw an arrow?” Johnny asks.

“Nah, I got it from here.” Patrick starts at the inside of one of Johnny’s thighs and kisses his way up, pressing Johnny’s legs open. He stops for a moment and looks down at Johnny in a way that makes Johnny feel crazy and exposed, spread open like this.

Patrick doesn’t touch Johnny’s dick until Johnny starts to ask for it, tugging at Patrick’s shoulder and making embarrassing noises. Then he swallows Johnny down without any further teasing, going hard and not letting up. Johnny tries not to move so he won’t mess up whatever Patrick wrote on him. Until he can see it, until he can wipe it off, his back belongs more to Patrick than to him. He wonders if Patrick felt the same way when Johnny drew on him. If he liked it.

Patrick doesn’t let up until Johnny comes fast and hard, and then keeps working his tongue until he’s sucked every drop. “That was kind of brutal,” says Johnny admiringly.

Patrick smiles up at him. He wonders if Patrick wants to fuck him, or if he’s also feeling like that would be weird. He pulls Patrick up to kiss him. Patrick rubs himself against Johnny’s hip until Johnny gets a hand on him, kisses him and strokes him until he comes on both of them, smearing that stupid arrow on his stomach, pink against the pale gold of his skin. 

Patrick rubs Johnny’s lower back so deliberately he’s surely trying to mess up part of the writing, to erase it. Johnny could just run off to the bathroom now and see what Patrick wrote, but it seems important to get Patrick’s permission, so he asks, “Can I see? I want to see what you wrote.”

“What?” Patrick asks. “Oh, your back? I guess. It’s probably fucked up now.” He rubs his hand against Johnny’s lower back again, as if to make sure that something is smeared.

Johnny turns and looks at himself in the mirror. It says “Kaner” and “88” and there are some hockey sticks. It’s all very predictable, but it still makes Johnny flush. It’s the Patrick version of what Johnny wanted to write, except he couldn’t let himself do it. 

“I’m going to the bathroom, man,” says Patrick. Johnny doesn’t look back at him. He’s trying to see what Patrick wrote across his lower back. It is blurred, but it looks like “What does” and then something smeared out, and then “nt?” What does something want? What does Johnny want? He can maybe see the J, if he looks for it, and he’s sure that’s what Patrick wrote and rubbed away.

Why would Patrick ask that? He has what he wants, right? This, this is perfect, or almost. It's easy. Anything more might be better in some way, but it would also be too hard. There would be too many questions. Johnny avoids looking at his face in the mirror and goes to join Patrick in the bathroom.

“So?” Patrick asks, sticking his head out of the shower. He has shampooed his hair into a fauxhawk full of suds, and it’s dripping over his forehead.

“Writing your name and your number on me?” Johnny says with a smirk. “Real subtle, Kaner.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” The soap starts dripping down into his eyes, and he squints and ducks back under the spray.

“What does that mean I ‘belong to you’ or something?” He puts the air quotes in with his voice.

“What’d you write on me? You know, before you started drawing?” Patrick asks. 

“Nothing,” says Johnny. “I just drew--designs.” Johnny’s glad there’s a shower curtain and the sound of the water between them now, to disguise whatever his voice and face are doing.

“Come on.” Patrick opens the shower curtain, and Johnny joins him. Patrick scrubs him off, and Johnny’s too distracted even to enjoy it. He wants to ask, _What did you mean ‘What does Johnny want?’_

What did Patrick want him to want? 

*

 _What does Johnny want?_ He knows he looks at Patrick too much already, and this new thing between them isn’t helping. Maybe it’s not a new thing between them at all, because Patrick doesn’t seem affected. It’s just Johnny who wonders.

The season is ramping up and they have all kinds of media appearances to do. Patrick’s an old hand at this now, and Johnny has all his soundbites down. Nothing’s happened yet, so there’s nothing to talk about, right? Just hopes for the season. Of course they want to repeat. Of course the new guys are great.

“Here,” says Patrick, before Johnny’s supposed to go on camera. He pulls Johnny’s arm toward him, surprising Johnny enough that he lets him. 

“What are you two idiots doing?” Sharpy asks. 

Johnny jumps. “Um,” he says, glancing at Patrick.

“Giving him a reminder,” says Patrick. He rolls up Johnny’s sleeve and and starts writing something on Johnny’s arm. Johnny doesn’t want to look at it while it’s happening, and he should probably stop this, but he really can’t. He just gives Sharpy a _look_ and Sharpy smirks at him and sort of waves his hands like _I’ll leave you two weirdos to it._ Johnny’s used to that gesture.

Patrick’s wears his concentration face, the dimples that rarely appear when he smiles bordering his mouth. Johnny would kiss him right now if he could, just press him up against the wall and--

“You wrote it upside down,” says Johnny when Patrick’s done.

“Oh.” Patrick’s face falls. “Well you can still read it. You know what it says.”

It says, _Don’t be boring_ , and then, smaller, _PK #88_ , as though Johnny’s likely to forget who wrote on him. Who he let write on him.

He’s bright red and flustered during the interview. He doesn’t know if that’s boring or not.

*

He keeps his Underarmor down over the writing on his arm, and then during practice, with some shift simulation drills, up and down the ice as fast as possible, a slow skate around, and then do it again, faster, and when you can’t do it faster, you keep your pace for the rest of the reps. Anyone who doesn’t keep their pace has to do a longer rest, and everyone watches while they finish last. Johnny never finishes last.

Johnny sweats off the writing so it’s just a big mass of red when he pulls the shirt off. When he’s rubbing extra soap on it in the shower that’s when he remembers that Patrick wrote _PK #88_ , and when he had all of Johnny’s back as his canvas, he wrote his name.

Granted, Patrick has 88 on his living room rug, so it’s probably just because he’s obsessed with himself in a totally juvenile way.

 _What does Johnny want?_ Patrick wrote, and then he rubbed it off.

*

The beginning of the 2013 season hits everyone hard, reminding everyone why the practices are so brutal. He and Patrick only have time for quick hookups on the road, maybe a handjob before falling asleep, usually in separate rooms. Johnny makes Patrick come to his room when they’re on the road, because he gets really tired after even just a handie and he doesn’t want to be the one to stumble back.

Also, Patrick’s room always becomes party central, all the new kids--guys--hanging around. Johnny does the leadership thing, but it’s Patrick who makes the rookies really want to be part of the team, to give everything. Johnny's who they give it for, but Patrick's who they give it to. Or something. Johnny wonders all the time what kind of captain he’d be if he didn’t have all the other guys around to lean on.

But then finally they have two days off in a row, and Patrick comes over to Johnny’s apartment, they’re sitting around, and Patrick says, “Do you want to draw on me again?”

It’s funny that Patrick is the one who keeps bringing it up. Johnny the one who gets the weird ideas stuck in his head, who wants things, wants to change things.

“You still have the pencil?” Johnny asks.

Patrick ducks his head and licks his lips. “Yeah.”

“And you want me to write on you?”

“Yeah,” says Patrick. “Or, whatever. I could just suck you off.”

Johnny snorts. He’s not too tired, and Patrick can suck Johnny off when he’s done writing on him.

“You gotta let me see this time,” says Patrick.

“Okay,” says Johnny.

Patrick’s paler now that summer is further in the past. Johnny pulls the skin of his back tight and Patrick groans. “That’s good,” he says.

“I haven’t even started writing on you yet.”

“Well, that felt good. And I’m sore.”

“You’re just trying to get me to give you a massage? Is that why you wanted to do the writing thing?” Patrick shrugs and smiles at Johnny over his shoulder. “You know we have therapists and shit. It’s one of the perqs.”

“I like it when you do it.”

Johnny sort of likes massaging Patrick too, although he’d hate it if anyone knew. He likes it because Patrick enjoys it. If he does a good job, Patrick will roll over and give him a sleepy smile, and it will punch Johnny in the gut, in a good way.

He digs his thumb in where he knows Patrick always hurts, lower right back, the thick muscle next to his spine. It springs back against the pressure.

“You should get someone to work on this for you, for real,” says Johnny. “You shouldn’t be this tight this early in the season.”

Patrick just groans, because he knows Johnny might lecture him, but he’ll still give him the massage. Johnny digs in his elbow there, and Patrick yelps. “Breathe through it, dumbass,” he says. He can write with his other hand.

_What does Johnny want?_

_I want_ , he almost writes, but then that seems--too much. And he’s been trying not to think about what he wants. _Johnny wants_ he writes instead, which seems easier. The Y goes a little funny when Patrick twitches. Johnny sits on him so he can’t move. 

_What does Johnny want?_

_Johnny wants more_ he writes, before he can change his mind. He shouldn’t leave it there, but he does, and then they hook up, and afterward he lets Patrick shower alone, to look at it or not, respond to it or not.

*

Of course, Johnny’s totally incapable of being cool when stuff like this happens. Or, let’s be honest, when he digs himself a big pit and then jumps in it. This stuff doesn’t just _happen_.

He sleeps terribly the next night, trying to think through the scenarios, if Patrick saw it, if Patrick was capable of reading it backward, in the mirror, probably smudged. 

If Johnny had just said something, then he wouldn’t have to wonder, but it seemed lot easier at the time. 

Johnny can feel himself acting weird, staring at Patrick too long when Patrick’s not looking, hoping he can read something in him.

For someone as guileless as he is, Patrick’s good at acting like everything is normal. Or else he didn’t see it and couldn’t read it and so everything actually _is_ normal. Johnny watches Patrick like if he just concentrates he'll be able to read what’s written on the inside of Patrick’s head.

After a game versus Columbus, which they won, after Johnny gives a serviceable congratulations-nice-job-even-better-next-time speech, Seabs sits down next to him. 

“Hey,” he says to Johnny. “What’s up?”

Johnny rubs his eyes. “Nothing."

Seabs doesn’t have to change his expression for Johnny to know that Seabs can see through him. “It’s a little early in the season to look as stressed as you do," he says.

“Yeah, well,” says Johnny. “You know.”

Seabs nods slowly, as if Johnny has actually said words that meant something. “Yeah, well, if you need to talk.” He hits Johnny on the shoulder and stands up.

He’s not going to talk, but if Seabs is worried about him, that’s a pretty good indication it’s ready to spill over into the rest of the team, so Johnny’s gotta deal with this. Soon.

*

An odd two day gap between away games gives the animals on the team time to plan an outing. A few guys go home, but everyone who’s left goes out to Rockit on the middle night. Johnny orders himself some of the extra strong Belgian beer that Sharpy introduced him to over the summer, and drinks like its his job until he’s starting to feel loose again.

Patrick’s meeting people and talking to a few girls, but it doesn’t look serious. He’s got two fingers wrapped around the neck of his beer as he tips it up toward his lips. Johnny remembers how he used to watch and want and not be able to do anything about it. Now he can, sometimes at least.

They come here often enough that the civilians are mostly used to them. There are always plenty of fans if anyone wants to be fawned over, but they also get left alone. Johnny wonders what Rockit would be like if he actually were dating Patrick, and everyone knew it. Then they probably wouldn’t be left alone, then he’d get all the questions he hates, but more so. Everyone’s in his business too much already. It’s better this way.

Except then Patrick gives the girl he’s talking to a smile, and its not his usual, douchey pick-up grin, it’s a slow smile that seems to light up his face, and it makes Johnny so angry, even with the beer that’s supposed to be loosening him up. He lurches out of the booth and over to the bar for another one, even though they have waiter service, just for something to do.

He’s not going to look them. He’s going to deal with it and he’s not going to want things that are bound to fuck up his life. 

He knows without looking when Patrick slides up next to him at the bar, from the way his shoulder fits against Johnny’s side. Patrick signals for another beer, and the bartender slides one along the bar to Patrick, who fist-pumps when he catches it.

Johnny smirks at him, until Patrick looks away. 

“More?” Patrick says, eventually. He’s leaning on the bar and looking intently at the liquor collection. “What is that?”

“More?” Johnny says stupidly. Now is his chance to say something, but he’s taking the easy way out. He watches the side of Patrick’s face as he presses his lips together and looks down at his thumb rubbing the wet label of his beer.

“I said you could--you know," says Patrick. "I wanted you to.” 

Patrick thinks this is about no one’s ass getting fucked in a while? “That’s not what I meant,” says Johnny, although not fucking means something, like maybe he’s been protecting himself. They’re pressed against each other still, leaning in close so no one else can hear what they’re saying. With anyone else it would be too close. Johnny takes a deep breath. “Don’t pick up tonight,” he says

“Not...tonight?” Patrick asks. “Okay.”

“What do you want?” Johnny asks. He wants to grab Patrick, to force him to turn and look at him. That probably would draw some attention.

Patrick smiles around the top of his beer, his lips dark and wet. “I asked first,” he says, so quietly, and the bar is so loud, that Johnny has to read the words off his mouth rather than hear them. Johnny imagines wrapping his arms around Patrick in a way no one in the bar would mistake, and saying in Patrick’s ear what he wants, imagines it so vividly that it’s painful he’s not doing it right now. He’s good at pain though, and so he keeps still until the image fades.

They go back to the booth, the unanswered question stretched between them. Johnny switches to drinking water, and Patrick keeps his orbit closer to the table, though he’s too hyper tonight just to sit there.

They take a car home. Johnny links his fingers with Patrick across the width of the seat and doesn’t look at him. As soon as they get inside his apartment, he presses Patrick up against wall and starts kissing him, pressing his thigh between Patrick’s legs until Patrick gets hard and starts doing half the work himself.

“You can’t get out of this,” says Patrick, though he sounds turned on enough that Johnny could probably distract him. “Come on, Johnny. This is stupid. What’s going on? What do you want? I can give you more.”

Fuck Patrick and his ability to just _say_ things. Johnny abruptly lets go, backs away from him and goes into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water and one for Patrick.

“You’re the one who said we weren’t--fuck it--you know, _dating_ ,” says Johnny while he’s running the water, with his back turned to Patrick. Because he’s a fucking coward. “When I asked last year.” He’s really trying hard not to sound like he’s whining.

“You did this whole ‘sigh, we’re not dating, are we,’” says Patrick in this nasal monotone, walking over to join Johnny in the kitchen. It’s a terrible impression. Johnny has never sounded like that in his life. “But. It did seem. Better. It would be really hard,” Patrick continues. “I mean. I don’t think--eventually people would wonder.”

Johnny freezes. Patrick’s right, he’s saying everything Johnny’s always thought, but of course Johnny hoped that Patrick would say something else and make it okay. It _would_ be really hard. The locker room has more gossip than _US Weekly _. If Patrick and Johnny stop trying to meet girls, start turning down fix ups, hook ups, all the things that are part of the atmosphere--someone is going to notice and guess, and then someone’s going to ask. And Johnny doesn’t want to lie to all of his best friends.__

__“Yeah,” he says, still talking to his kitchen sink. He sets down the water glasses and leans on the counter. “I know. Just sometimes. I thought...you know...you wrote your name on me.”_ _

__He turns then to see Patrick grinning at him, his cheeks pink. “I did.”_ _

__“So...?” Johnny crosses his arms._ _

__“So...” Patrick shrugs. “It would be hard, but, I don't know, it might be worth it.” He’s looking at Johnny’s chest now, eyelids drooping tiredly. “It doesn’t have to be all at once, right?"_ _

__Johnny wishes Patrick would look up at him, so he could have a better idea what he really thinks of this, but Patrick plunges ahead. "We can see what happens. And try to be prepared. And not do anything stupid.”_ _

__Johnny rolls his eyes and fights a grin. “Yeah? How do you think that’s going to work out?”_ _

__“Okay, that one’s probably more on me,” says Patrick. He steps in closer to Johnny and tips his face up. “Come on. Bed. You can write on me.”_ _

__“I already did that,” says Johnny._ _

__“This time write what you want to write.” His smile is soft and private, and Johnny thinks that maybe all the stupid questions they’ll get if this comes out could be worth it._ _

__“Oh yeah,” says Johnny. “What’s that?”_ _

__Patrick pulls away and starts walking into the bedroom. “You know...’This booty is the property of Jonathan Toews,’” he says, striking a pose with his hip out. “‘Trespassers will be shot.’”_ _

__“Fuck you,” Johnny calls after him, grinning._ _

__“Duh,” says Patrick, “but only after you write it.”_ _


End file.
